


Good Enough

by Steadfxst



Category: US Comedians RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Sad, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15483417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steadfxst/pseuds/Steadfxst
Summary: Set prior to John making it big. He’s traveling around the country to perform at any club that will have him.It feels good to have someone else take over after having to be so present when he’s performing, hyperaware of himself and his words and the audience watching him. He needs this, he rationalizes, to break free from that. No one was watching him here. No one was waiting for him to fail. He didn’t have to pretend about anything when some anonymous stranger was pounding into him.





	Good Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinnerinsecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerinsecret/gifts).



After the first time, he told himself that it would be the _only_ time.

He’d stood up from the stranger’s bed, limped around the room to gather his clothes, pulled them back on over still-tender skin, and _promised_ himself:

Never again.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time comes sooner than he would’ve thought. How did they _know_ that this was what he needed after doing another day doing a long set during a grueling tour?

He doesn’t even know their name, but John has their hotel keycard pressed tightly into the palm of his trembling hand. He presses the button to the fifth floor and the old lady standing next to him smiles.

On the outside, he knows he looks like a good Catholic boy. He’s still in his suit. He’s got clean cut hair, and his shirt is tucked in. This old woman approves of him; it’s a look he has been familiar with throughout his up-bringing.

The bell dings, and he smiles at her as he steps out.

“Little does _she_ know,” he thinks as he walks up to door 509.

 

* * *

 

 

John thought there was only going to be one man, but there are two inside.

“Oh,” he says.

“I told my buddy you were coming over. Is that okay?”

John’s not sure, but he nods. The more the merrier, right?

 

* * *

 

 

John is left panting on the bed while the men redress. His chest feels tight and tears prick his eyes. One of the men—he still doesn’t know their names. How dangerous and how foolish—pats him on the ass.

“Great show tonight,” he says.

John doesn’t know if he’s referring to his shitty set or the sex they just had.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Check out is at ten,” the other says.

They leave him there, covered in sweat and come. John wishes he had a cigarette.

 

* * *

 

 

John reiterates his promise to himself after the way the tenth time ends…

The man behind him slides deep into his ass, and John groans.

“So much for promises,” he thinks dimly.

The pace is rough, but John doesn’t mind. It feels good to have someone else take over after having to be so _present_ when he’s performing, hyperaware of himself and his words and the audience watching him. He needs this, he rationalizes, to break free from that. No one was watching him here. No one was waiting for him to fail. He didn’t have to pretend about _anything_ when some anonymous stranger was pounding into him.

There are bruises layered on bruises on his hips and waist from various men pulling him back onto their cocks.

“You’re so tight,” the man behind him moans.

John licks his lips, and doesn’t say, “That’s because you didn’t use enough lube.”

It’s okay. It’s fine. He needs this.

The man suddenly pulls out of him. He hears him yank the condom off before jerking himself off. He feels the man come on his cheeks, and he grimaces.

John is still hard, but he doesn’t want to touch himself while the man is still here. The guy’s already getting up to leave. John doesn’t say anything; he just telepathically projects into the room _Leave leave leave leave_ —

The man slaps a twenty onto the nightstand.

“Oh, that’s not—”

“Trust me; you earned it,” he says before departing.

John stops counting after that.

 

* * *

 

 

“It doesn’t count if it’s just a blowjob,” he reasons.

He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering closed in a way he hopes the man above him appreciates.

The stranger buries his fingers into his hair and his cock into his mouth. John gags a little, prompting drool to spill out of his lips, and the man chuckles appreciatively.

“That’s good, that’s so good.”

John whines.

He wasn’t good. Doing this in an alley behind a bar ten miles from the theater wasn’t “good.” It was—It was fucked up.

He feels tears stream from under his lashes, and the man brushes them away with a thumb.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay. You’re doing so well.”

Fuck, who was this guy? Who said shit like that during a back alley blowjob? John doesn’t like it. He’s—he’s being too fucking _tender_.

John decides to prove him wrong by taking him in further than he should to show him that he’s here to be used, not coddled. He pulls back to cough.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he man says.

John looks up and gets his first good look at him. He’s an older man with grey-white hair and crooked nose and bright brown eyes. There’s a scar on his neck, which John imagines he got in a bar brawl in his younger years.

“I—”

John can’t think of anything to say.

“My knee hurts. I injured it last year,” he says.

There’s no reason he should be telling this stranger this, but he can’t help it.

“Come up here, son,” he man says. (There’s a trace of an accent there, but John can’t quite place it.)

The man reaches out a hand to help him up. John takes it.

The man tucks himself away and zips his jeans before putting a hand on his shoulder. The pleasant warmth makes John look up at him again against his better judgement.

“You should go home.”

“I’m sorry,” John says, looking at his shoes.

The man squeezes his shoulder and wanders back into the bar.

 

* * *

 

 

“How did it come to this?” John wonders.

He’s in a not-so-great part of the city he’s schedule to perform in, and he’s chain smoking on a street corner. There’s a few other, well. People like him milling about.

No one pays him any mind as cars come, pick up their worker, and drive off. He pulls out a fresh cig and lights it off the nearly-dead one. He crushes the remnants under his shoe. Fire safety and all…

He laughs. How utterly absurd.

“What’s so fucking funny?” a voice calls from a car.

He looks up, face appearing unphased, but his heart beats a little faster.

“Nothing.”

The car door opens, and John climbs in.

 

* * *

Things begin to blur together—

“Your skin is so soft.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!”

John flinches.

Right…Right.

 

* * *

 

"How much for the both of us?" the blond asks, pointing to himself and his brunette...friend? Partner? Fuck buddy?

"Ummm."

 

* * *

"Deeper, motherfucker. Deeper."

Shit.

He's  _trying_.

Don't they see how hard he's trying?

* * *

—Until:

“Wait, you didn’t finish.”

John shakes his head, bites his lip.

“It’s fine.”

The man smiles, slowly and gently.

“It’s okay. You did so well. Now it’s your turn.”

A stranger in New York City who knew about aftercare? John tries to come up a joke about liberal elites, but then the man with the big hands reaches for his dick, and all thought goes out the window.

He strokes him leisurely, and John’s hips buck up off the mattress. It had been a while since someone had been this gentle with him. It makes his throat prickle and his eyes sting. With some whispered reassurances, John comes with a bitten off moan and spills over the man’s fist.

“There you go. What a good boy you are.”

John pants, swallows.

“Th-thanks.”

The man wipes off his hand and settles back on the bed beside him.

“I should go,” John says.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can, like, spend the night. It’s late,” he says kindly.

“Look, I don’t—”

“Obviously I’m not gonna make you, but you just look…well, worn out. You got someone at home taking care of you?”

John laughs.

“I’m not even taking care of _myself_ ,” he blurts.

The man tilts his head to the side in genuine sympathy, and John feels tears leak out of his eyes against his will. The man tentatively slides closer to John and puts his arms around him.

In a stranger’s bed, in a stranger’s arms, for the first time in months, John allows himself to grieve.

 

* * *

 

 

John isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he wakes up to the smell of bacon and coffee. That didn’t make any sense…

He opens his eyes. An unfamiliar bedroom.

The memories slowly flood back.

“Fuck,” he murmurs into his hands.

The knock on the door frame startles him, and he pulls his hands away from his face ready to make excuses and leave immediately.

“Hey. I made breakfast. You can stay, if you’d like.”

Some of John’s fight or flight urges fade.

“O-okay. Sure. Just—”

“Shower is that way, if you want to use it. I know this is a little presumptuous, and I know we don’t like, even know each other, but, um. If you’re in a bad situation, you can—you can stay here.”

“Oh.”

The man shakes his head.

“Sorry. Sorry. I know that’s probably creepy, but. But your bruises…”

The man trails off, and John feels his cheeks heat. He tries to find his voice.

“Okay,” John says.

The man smiles again.

“Okay. Great. Well, if we’re gonna be roomies or whatever, I should introduce myself. I’m Nick.”

He holds out his right hand, and John takes it.

“John. Nice to formally meet you.”


End file.
